


Winter Has Come

by thisgirlnani



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Sansa POV, Tyrion POV, arya pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 09:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlnani/pseuds/thisgirlnani
Summary: Winter has come, and the path to victory against the Night King is a long one.Tension brews within the castle walls among those gathered to fight for the living. Dragons and lions venture into the winter, but it is the wolves who thrive in the midst of it all.





	Winter Has Come

**TYRION**

Jaime, golden-haired and clothed in black, arrives at Winterfell just days after his own arrival. Dark circles mar his handsome face, as though he rode from King’s Landing to Winterfell without a second of sleep.

Although he is glad to see his brother, worry settles in his stomach. For though Jaime’s presence in Winterfell indicates that he has cut ties with their poisonous sister, his presence inevitably causes deep unease within the castle walls. Daenerys is none too pleased to be under the same roof as the man who slayed her father, and the conflict he had felt first at the Field of Fire, conflict between allegiance to his queen and allegiance to his brother resurfaces once more.

 **“** He is a changed man.” Tyrion insists to his queen. “My brother has been dishonorable, as has every man that has walked this earth. But he wishes to change all that and fight in this war for the living. Can you not give him that opportunity to redeem himself?”

Daenerys turns on him, violet eyes aglow with anger. “Some sins are irredeemable. He must be punished for his crimes. He killed my father and the usurpers rewarded him for that.”

 _Your father was the Mad King who killed innocents, himself._ Tyrion wishes for nothing more than to say those words.  But it will do no good, and he knows it will only incur her wrath further. “We are in a war right now, Your Grace. A war where the living must be united.” He quotes Jon Snow’s words. “This isn’t a time to take prisoners or execute people. If you want to unite the Seven Kingdoms, you must learn to exhibit mercy, or there will only be ashes to rule over when this war is done.”

His queen only scoffs. “You are a lion through and through. Are you my Hand or will you continue to stand with the Kingslayer? You cannot do both.”

“I stand by my words.” Tyrion replies, sadly, for he realizes now that she is blinded by her anger. “I swore an oath to always give you my best counsel, and I have never broken that oath. Give Jaime a trial after the war has been fought. There is no guarantee he may even survive the Long Night.” His own words make him sick, for if Jaime truly were to die, Tyrion would be lost. But he says these words now, for he knows it will mollify his queen. She listens then, perhaps because she relishes in the thought of Jaime meeting his end to the Night King.

But, Jaime, that bastard, makes things worse and stirs up trouble when he pledges his allegiance to Sansa Stark in the middle of court.

Though the North has not formally abided by Jon’s words and bent the knee to Daenerys, she sits at the head of the Great Hall. Tyrion sits to her right, and Jon sits to her left. Sansa is seated at Jon’s left, a rarity for her to be seen in court, for ever since they have come to Winterfell she has made herself scarce. Sansa always has a pretty excuse ready for why she cannot attend meetings with Daenerys and Jon, but Tyrion knows that the Stark girl has a deep resentment for his queen, and he cannot begrudge her that.

Jaime steps forward, and a pit forms in Tyrion’s stomach in anticipation. _He will do something stupid, that idiot._

“Lady Stark, if you would come to the front.” Jaime inclines his head, respectfully.

Sansa Stark’s blue eyes widen in confusion, and she sits frozen in her spot. Jon leans over to place a hand on her arm. “Sansa, you do not have to do as he says.” Tyrion nearly misses it, but he sees Sansa flinch away from her brother’s touch.

“What is the meaning of this, Kingslayer?” Daenerys questions, imperiously.

Jaime’s jaw tightens at the mention of his old moniker, but he does not grace her with an answer. Instead he looks towards Sansa. There is a softness in his eyes that Tyrion recognizes now. It is how he used to gaze at Myrcella and Tommen, and even Joffrey, when he had been a child incapable of the cruelty he exhibited once he was older.

The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark stands from her place and comes forward slowly, until she is directly in front of Jaime. He gives her a small, grateful smile and then he is on one knee, with Widow’s Wail placed on the ground

“Lady Sansa, I come now, in deep regret and sorrow. I swore an oath to your mother to deliver you and your sister safely back to Winterfell. I was unable to fulfill that oath.” Sansa Stark trembles at the mention of her mother, but she holds her head high.

Brienne of Tarth fulfilled that oath, Tyrion remembers. The giant woman with a mop of blonde hair stands at the back of the room now, surveying the scene in front of her with great solemnity though there is a hint of pride in her sapphire eyes. The Tarth woman’s sword, half of the Stark’s ancestral sword, glints at her waist. Jaime had told him it was named Oathkeeper, there could be no better name for it. The other half, its sister sword, now lies at Sansa Stark’s feet.

Jaime continues now, “Because I broke that oath, I wish to swear a new one, one I will dedicate my life to fulfilling in the memory of your late Lady mother. I return with the sword that rightfully belongs to your House, and re-name it Wolf’s Fang. I will wield it in honor of your family.” He bows his head, “I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

The blood rushes out of Tyrion’s face, and he doesn’t dare to look at Daenerys. He knows his queen already holds Sansa Stark in an unfavorable light. For the Northerners make no secret of their wish to crown the Stark girl, instead of bending the knee. Now that Jaime has so publicly declared his allegiance for the Stark girl, no doubt there is a bitter taste in Dany’s mouth. The Kingslayer, standing in front of her, pledging allegiance to a potential usurper of her power.

Sansa’s back straightens, and she responds with a steely look in her blue eyes. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Sansa nods once, “Arise.”

His brother looks upon Sansa Stark with a sense of wonderment and disbelief. She has accepted his oath so simply, despite the grievances House Lannister has inflicted upon her family and on herself. He stands now, with the newly-named Wolf’s Fang in his hand.

 A twist of fate has brought Ice back to House Stark, the sister swords are reunited at last underneath Winterfell’s roof, and now they are both sworn to protect the castle’s lady, Sansa Stark. Tyrion sees the poetic beauty in it all, but he cannot stop the fear he feels for his brother and the Lady Stark.

 _Jaime, you bloody, bloody, fool. Must you pay your debts to the Stark family now?_  

* * *

 

**SANSA**

The Dragon Queen and Jon come to her solar that night. Brienne sweetly offers to turn them away and tell them she is sleeping, but Sansa decides she is no coward and she tells her sworn shield to let the two in.

Her stomach turns and turns as they enter her chambers. The sight of them only furthers the aching pain in her heart, but she smiles frostily and invites them to sit. Jon gazes over at her and he gives a little questioning smile, as though to say, _I hope you are doing well?_

 _He is a fool_ , she thinks bitterly. Does he think that she will smile back at him and soothe his fears and guilt? She ignores his smile, and instead matches Daenerys Targaryen’s stare.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace, Lord Snow?”

Daenerys smiles beautifully, though poison drips from her tongue as she begins speaking. “Lady Stark, I must say though I’ve been at Winterfell for quite some time. I’ve missed your presence during our meetings. Today was a rarity to have you in court, but I should like to see you more often. I feel as though we haven’t had a chance to speak much, a pity, in my eyes.”

“It’s a pity, I agree.” Sansa nods, though she scoffs internally. “But, Lord Snow has told me he knows better than I of war strategies, and he is right, such things are often lost on me.” She speaks brightly, but the ire in her tone rings loud. “The matters of the castle are better suited for my skills. Therefore I believe it’s best if I don’t attend those meetings. I’d hate to get in the way.”

She chances a glance at Jon who looks uncomfortable, shifting restlessly in his seat. Even though he wears his fur cloak, she can see how tightly his shoulders are drawn together, underneath the furs.

“I know we would appreciate your council, regardless. The Lady of Winterfell should be present, I insist.” Daenerys folds her hands together neatly.

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Is it I who is the Lady of Winterfell still? I thought my brother to be your choice as Warden of the North. You see my brother bent the knee without communication, so do forgive me, if I am a bit confused about the whole thing.”

All pretense leaves Sansa’s words. Jon’s eyes finally snap up to look at her, and she gives him a hard stare in return _. Go ahead and speak Jon_ , she silently taunts, _or will you hide behind your dragon queen while she lectures me in your stead?_ Just as she predicted, he stays silent, but his eyes grow dark and his lips press into a tight line.

Daenerys sighs deeply. The sound grates on Sansa’s nerves. “Jon had told me you were upset, and that is also why I have come here.” She pauses, sharing a look with Jon before continuing. “I want to make it clear that I am not like my father, I am no Mad Queen. My family was overtaken by usurpers who sought to kill me as a young baby. I have been mocked, beaten, and raped, but I stand her stronger today, determined to overcome that suffering and claim my _birthright_. The Seven Kingdoms will be united under my rule, I will be a just, kind ruler. I swear to this.” Her violet eyes sparkled earnestly. “I know it is difficult for you to understand the journey that I have taken, but I believe all the pain that I have suffered has led me to this moment. I-”

Sansa stands suddenly, the heavy furs slipping off her shoulders and landing on the stone ground with a heavy _thump_. There is a burning fury that surges through her bones and blood like molten lava. Has the Dragon Queen truly disturbed her peace to weave a tragic tale, as though she possesses some monopoly on pain? She is Sansa of House Stark, eldest of the wolf pack, and she bares her teeth now.

“You think you are the only one who has suffered?” She bites out with a snarl, sounding more wolf than human.

Jon stands up now too. He looks at her, pleadingly, and she hates him for that. “Sansa, sweet girl, please.“ He moves forward, towards her, but she stops him in his tracks with a cold look.

“Don’t presume to call me with such affection, when you have betrayed me like this.”

In truth, she hates the Dragon Queen, but she can deal with hatred. She’s hated many people. It’s the hurt and betrayal from Jon’s broken promises that cuts and leaves her with wounds so deep.

She moves now without thinking, her finger reaching up to unlace the front of her dress. Jon realizes what she’s doing seconds in, and he flushes scarlet when she moves to push the fabric off of her shoulders. “Sansa!”

The dress falls to the ground in a heap, joining the furs on the stone ground. She is left only in her thin shift, but she stands with her chin up, defiantly glaring down at the Dragon Queen, who only stares back in shock at her state of dress. Jon’s gaze shifts away, and she narrows her blue eyes and demands coldly, “Do not look away Jon.”

He meets her gaze hesitantly, and she turns around to bare her naked shoulders and upper back. The cold bites at her skin, but it does not matter. She hears Jon inhale sharply, and he even murmurs a curse as he views her scars. When she was younger, she had been ashamed to have been so marred. Although Joffrey no longer breathed, he managed to live on through these marks. Sometimes when she gazed upon her naked reflection before a bath, she would hear his sniveling voice in the emptiness of her chambers.

Though she cannot see for herself now, she knows they are there, dull red streaks of puckered skin that run over her shoulders, and past her dress. The lines intersect up and down her ivory skin. She bares these scars defiantly now, no longer ashamed. These are her scars, the price she paid in the fight for Northern independence.

“I acquired these scars from the late King Joffrey. I was to be married to him, but they took my father’s head, and took me prisoner. In return, my brother rallied the Northern forces together in the name of Northern independence.” She trembles slightly, the thought of Robb still pains her to this day. “For every victory my brother won, Joffrey would bring me in front of court and punish me for those victories. His soldiers lashed at my skin, and I bled and cried for all too witness my humiliation. Every night I dreamt Robb would save me, storm King’s Landing, with a crown atop his red curls, and he would make them all pay. But, they killed him too. They killed my brother and they slit my mother’s throat.”

Tears threaten to spill, but she breathes in harshly, steeling herself to be strong. She will not cry in front of the Dragon Queen. She is a wolf, she is no child, not anymore. “Those scars upon my back are not just from a prince’s temper tantrums. These are the scars of Northern Independence. _I have fought, I have bled for my people_.”

She turns back around, and she sees Daenerys swallow hard. Jon looks sick to his stomach, but it does not make her feel any better. He has _known_ this. He had known that she had suffered. It’s true that he had never seen her physical scars, but hadn’t he been able to tell, from the way she shuddered at loud noises or the way she always shrunk away from the Lords who reached for her hand too quickly, the extent of the damage inflicted upon her?

If not that, then at least she knows he is well aware of how much their family has suffered at the hand of Southern leaders, for though he was a bastard, he knows how their family once was so happy.

They can never again be as they once were. Arya has become something so unrecognizable, a stone-faced girl who kills so easily now. Bran is a shell of his former self. He spends his days in silence, a grim look set upon his face as his eyes turn milky white, truly frightening her. She misses her siblings, she misses their laughter echoing about the castle walls. Arya will never be so light-hearted and Bran will never snuggle against her side, lovingly, as he used to.

Rickon lies dead in the crypts with punctures in his small body, and as for Robb, mother, and father they will never even be laid to rest in Winterfell.

Jon knew all this and yet he returned with that Dragon Queen, asking her to once again kneel to a Southern ruler, within the stone walls of their own home. When she first saw him after his return, gods, her fingers itched to strangle him. _How could you?_ She wished to scream in front of the Northern Lords. _I proclaimed you a Stark in my eyes, but your actions have made you unrecognizable._

_Why, Jon, why have you forsaken House Stark? Why have you forsaken me?_

Exhaustion hits Sansa with full force. She is tired of fighting this war, this game of thrones. “I know you have suffered as well, Your Grace.” She nods at Daenerys, wearily. “We both have suffered injustices, this world is too cruel. But your pain does not outweigh mine, as my pain does not outweigh yours. However, your reward for suffering is _not_ my home. Winterfell belongs to the North. Jon may be able to forget the pain and suffering that our family has endured for its independence, but I cannot.”

Jon faces her with pained eyes. “Sansa, I have not forgotten what you have gone through. I would fight a million more wars against Ramsay or Joffrey, if I could, to avenge what had been done to you.”

Sansa shakes her head. She is tired of this, more words that sound pretty, but mean nothing. His promises may have meant something to her before, but not anymore. Daenerys stays silent, something Sansa is finally thankful for.

 There is nothing more she wishes to say or hear from the two of them. “I tire. I wish to retire to my chambers now.” She replies curtly. “I bid you two a good night.” Sansa turns on her heel and leaves them. They leave shortly after, and once she hears the door ring shut, she cries herself to sleep.

Her sleep is haunted by nightmares of twisting dragons with fiery lungs flying over blood-splattered snow. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. _No matter what, we must survive_ , she thinks fiercely.

* * *

 

**ARYA**

The revelation of Jon’s true parentage, hits Arya, like a gut-punch, leaving her winded and breathless.

Jon is her brother. Jon is her brother. Jon is her _brother_. She repeats it like a mantra in her mind, hoping that it will remain true, if she says it enough times. _Jon is her brother._

But he really isn’t. He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He is heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and even was given the name of Aegon Targaryen at birth.

Jon Snow is no Aegon Targaryen. The name is almost comical on her tongue. Her stupid brother with gentle eyes and dark curls is a Stark through and through. They look alike, the two of them. That’s why she adored him so much, to start with. He made her feel like she belonged in the North among her red-haired siblings.

This revelation has stolen a brother from her. She has already lost two brothers, and now she has lost another.

Sansa had taken the news much more gracefully. Arya knows it hasn’t been easy for her sister, and though she hides it better she bears as much resentment for the Dragon Queen and Jon’s betrayal as Arya does. The war may be upon their walls, but their bond has grown only stronger since Petyr’s death.

“Do you hate Jon again?” Arya asks bluntly, one night. They sit in Sansa’s solar by the fire. Bran sits nearby, silent as ever, but his presence there, is enough.

Her sister is silent for a moment. “I can’t hate Jon.” She admits, putting down her needlework, an incomplete direwolf stitched onto a white handkerchief. “He saved me at my lowest point. What he did is unforgiveable-“a cold look settles in her sister’s eyes. “-but I just can’t bring myself to hate him. Trust me, Arya, I’ve tried.” She chuckles wearily, returning to her needlework.

Arya finds herself agreeing. It would be so much easier to hate Jon. Then the enemy would be clear, the enemy would be the Targaryens threatening to take over her home. She would slit their throats as easily as she slit Petyr Baelish’s throat, and then the North would be free to take their independence.

But she cannot hate Jon. He is one of their own. He is a part of their wolf pack, even if the dragon queen puts him atop one of her beasts and dresses him in scarlet and ebony. It seems as though, Sansa has come to this conclusion as well, for one night she comes across her older sister and Jon huddled at the base of the weirwod tree.

She hadn’t meant to spy on them, only coming to the Godswood for a brief respite from the stuffy walls of the castle, but now that she sees them there, she hides behind a tree just a couple of meters from them.

Sansa holds Jon tightly against her body, as he weeps openly. Arya is stunned at the sight. She has never seen Jon Snow cry. But tears unmistakably streak against his pale skin, and Sansa lifts her fingers to brush them away.

“Do not say such things.” She hears Sansa murmur sweetly. Arya is reminded of her lady Mother, by the way that Sansa holds Jon and speaks comfortingly to him. “You belong to us.”

Jon’s eyes shut tight and the pain is clear in his voice. “I am no wolf. I have betrayed you, gods, those scars upon your body, Sansa, I cannot undo what I have done, and I loathe myself for it all.”

Curiosity flickers in Arya’s mind at the mention of Sansa’s scars. She has never seen them, though she has heard whispers of what Ramsay and Joffrey had don’t to her sister. There had been no great detail in the rumors, but she had heard enough to wish that she could resurrect Ramsay and Joffrey and kill them all over again.

“Sansa, I beg for your forgiveness.” Jon pulls away from her sister, and falls on his knees. “I’ll fight in this war, to protect your home and your family, Arya, and Bran. And when the long night is over, I will fight once more for the North’s freedom. I told you I would fight a million more wars, for you, and I stand by that promise.”

“Arise, Jon.” Sansa whispers, softly. She looks saddened, though Arya cannot understand why. Is this not what they have wanted all along? Haven’t they wished for Jon to once more pledge himself to the North? She buries the urge to come out of her hiding spot and tackle Jon, lovingly. She always _knew_ he was a wolf. Dragon Queen be damned, Jon Snow is a man of the North.

Sansa extends her white fingers and helps Jon stand. “Stop making promises to me, Jon Snow.” There is a bitter smile upon her lips.

“I will swear as many promises to you until I have proven myself worthy of you.” He insists, stubbornly.

“I only want one promise from you.”

“Say it, and I shall swear it.”

Her sister reaches into her cloak to pull out a small piece of cloth. Arya strains to make out what it is, but she recognizes it after a brief moment. It is the handkerchief that Sansa had spent that night embroidering a direwolf on its edge. Even from Arya’s place she can make out the gray stitching of their house’s proud sigil.

Sansa presses the cloth into Jon’s hand. “Survive the war. That is all I ask of you.” She presses a kiss to his cheek, and Jon slackens against her touch.

“Then, that is all I swear to do.” Jon squeezes the cloth tightly in his hand, as if trying to brand the sigil upon his palm.

_“When winter comes…_

_You’ll hear no lions roar…_

_No stags grazing the fields…_

_No roses growing in the meadows…_

_No snakes in the sand…_

_The krakens will freeze where they swim…_

_The flayed men will rot and wither…_

_No trouts swimming in the river and no falcons flying in the air…_

_Not even the dragon’s breath will warm you in your halls._

_You shall hear only the wolves howl…_

_And then you will know. **Winter has come**.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed xx (Note: by the way I didn't write that last poem, it's been circulating for quite some time on tumblr and I just thought it was so lovely. I'm hardcore Team Stark if you couldn't notice lol)


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